The Mark of a Madman
by burst 'N bloom
Summary: My Lovino, burning up like explosions of cherry tomatoes heated in the collapse of summer nights, was all the more beautiful in red. Red like anger. Red like shame. // dark!Antonio
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer** : Hetalia is not mine!

**Notes**: Inspired by Lolita, which was written by Vladimir Nabokov. I wanted to experiment with prose a little bit, plus I can totally see Antonio as a Humbert Humbert type, what with his hidden yandere-ness, his closet pedophilia and stunningly good looks ;P

**Warnings**: If you know the story of Lolita, it's fairly similar in rating except with the added dash of BL :P watch out for the non-explicit non-con!

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_'Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, if I may be allowed to call you as such. I stand before you to tell you my story, to defend my rights, to free you from those horrendous lies that the opposing side has offered you. I stand before you, a humble man, only to relay to you the story of my unwavering affection and love for a boy – and sin though it may be, I cannot help but believe that love should be revered in any form it's given. I loved him then and I love him now, forever and always. Is that such a crime? I don't ask for your pity; all I ask is that you listen and feel what I felt._

-.-.-.-.

There is but one child I call my own – only one love, I believe, and it was a love so terrible and beautiful that I could only claim it as mine. My violent, vapid affection for that cruel object of my obsessions, my vile vicious vagrant, my lone, my only, my Lovi, my my _m_y Lovino Vargas.

Don't think ill of me when you hear his name – haven't all the best men fallen in love with the beauty of youthful masculinity? Take Shakespeare – one can hardly smear _his_ name for loving a childish boy too fiercely, and I have always been particularly enchanted by tiny faunlets, dripping with beauty and smiles curled into lacquered curves, though society smears such displays of love. If I had been born a century or two ago, perhaps Lovino and I could have loved each other with less of the persecution of today's generation. If I had been given that liberty, I assure you, our's would've been the purest of all - purer than any of those pretensions of love I showered onto Bella or all of the other grown woman that I had ever pretended to adore.

You cannot begin to understand the madness that brews within the veins of such repressed pathetic men like me. To be outcasted for loving beautiful youthful children, to be outcasted for loving boys! Bottling those emotions was the only course of action I could take; I was certainly well aware of the laws in the country and I knew that the golden ages of years past weren't looked on with much respect for their interaction with faunlets.

But I was obsessed - with greater fervor than Shakespeare could ever have feigned - and this sort of obsession to you, my humble jury, may have been the mark of a madman, but to the unrestrained eye, it was simple adoration.

I will not, however, lead you to believe me to be a pure man. Far from it. No, I had originally directed my affections elsewhere, rejecting that bastard of a lover that I cannot let go of anymore. It is a peculiar and cruel sort of story, ours, perhaps only due to my own human desires.

But I digress. You asked me when this all started? When this disgusting – oh, please refrain from such ugly words to describe our love –ordeal began?

I was at the time a ripe age of 23, a handsome Spaniard, perhaps a bit scatter-brained with a girl on the side.

Her name was Bella, a pretty young Belgium thing with soft blonde hair, always with a rich crimson sash sliding against the crown of her head to hold back those lovely strands from whispering into her eyes.

We liked each other enough, or at least, I her. I can't pretend to know the extent of her adoration for me, but we were lovers (though not truly in love).

She attended a small liberal arts college close to my own university and we lived in a fairly sized apartment with two bedrooms, one which was left mostly unused except when I needed my space. Forgive me, mi Bella, if you hear this and I am lying through my foul Spanish teeth, but I could've sworn that for every morning we woke up together, there was always this sensational glimmer in her eyes that crooned _'marriage'_ against the soft fleshy lobe of my ear.

I liked her enough, really, truly, but to marry her – now that was something else. I did find her attention admirable in its own right; she was a beautiful woman with skin like a child's, something I always treasured in that smiling pile of flesh, and her eyes were like brilliant emerald fruits, dribbling and dripping its juicy pulp, but marriage was out of the question. After all, a man doesn't share his particular secrets with the woman he's bedding, especially not a secret passion as volatile as mine.

I was still stirring from a dream of peculiar proportions (tomatoes and fields, sunflowers and the like. You know the sort) when I heard her voice and a low thud. It shook the chairs, rumbling the furniture and she quickly went to her knees onto the ground, the sound of items being recovered clattering through the kitchen.

"Buenos días, Bella." I had surreptitiously made my way to the small kitchen where she knelt on the lacquered tiles, hastily throwing the dishes that she'd dropped back onto the counter. Her hair swung back as she gazed up from her prostate position, smiling and flashing those ivory teeth.

"Oh – oh, Antonio, good morning."

I am, for most parts, a fool – a bumbling idiot of sorts when it comes to emotions. No doubt a result of my tired Spanish blood pumping through my veins, I am generally quite ignorant, but that day had been a rather auspicious one for my mind, because I caught the slight wavering in her bell-like voice. My little Bella with her wind-chime voice shivering in the breeze.

"Oh? Are you alright?" I fell to my knees and helped her pick up the items that had made a mess onto the floor_._ She smiled gratefully, a flicker of blonde hair brushing against my chin as she leant in and swept a kiss against my cheek. A gentle moment. A sweet one, even.

"I-I… just some news came in the mail today." Her voice, her bell-sweet voice reached an octave higher as she flippantly waved a piece of paper around. The rustle of the wind catching onto the edges bothered me so I stopped it by taking the letter into my own hands. "Oh, it's nothing. Really."

Silly young woman. It certainly was not nothing.

An accident, some horrid occasion with a car and alcohol or something, had knocked her uncle or someone off from the ledge of a cliff - I don't much really recall the details but the gist was the same. Anyways, the man was pronounced dead along with his wife, leaving his two children without parents. One was a little boy aged 14 and the other only 13, and no other living relatives could be found to take care of them. My little Bella was the closest to be found, so naturally, propriety gave her the care over the children.

An Austrian neighbor of said man penned the note, a Roderich Edelstein (what a contrived name), and insisted on meeting my poor girl to talk over the arrangements. He'd said something along the lines of, '_a woman of your age cannot truly live her youth out with the presence of two children.'_ And so on and so forth in complicated jargon befitting an Austrian. But I stray from the topic.

If you only knew the images that flashed in my mind at the prospect of nurturing sweet young boys, 13 and 14 in the safety of my own home, you would call me disgusting. And yet, my bones were trilling with excitement; beauty was a trait inherent in Bella's genes and if these young children were anything like her, only in the nubile and fantastic form of little faunlets, I knew that this was an opportunity I couldn't pass up. My teeth glistened.

"So, when should we go meet him?"

"I'm sorry, Antonio... I-I know how hard it is..."

But it was a sweet moment and I brushed her cheeks with my lips and she grew quiet again.

"No, mi amor. Está bien; no quiero que te preocupes con esta situación, "

Hah, how ludicrous. If I had known the things that would come out of this meeting, I'd have never gone at all.

-.-.-.-

"This is Feliciano Vargas, here. Yes, yes that one, sleeping on the couch. He's 13."

Feliciano was like a cherub. Sweet russet hair slipped from his head, splayed across a Roman nose, soft in its angles and gentle against the coarse rose printed fabric of the couch. He had a smile, dazed and pretty; his lashes were long against his fragile cheek and, Dios, he was beautiful. Mr. Edelstein seemed to think so too, as did his wife. She brushed her knuckles against Feliciano's shoulder and kneaded his skin, soft and chubby like a doll.

"Lovino, unfortunately, refuses to come downstairs right now. He's – ah"

"He's a bit more difficult than Feliciano, you see." The woman with chestnut hair interrupted, swinging her green skirt behind her as she sat next to Feliciano. "Don't take this the wrong way, I mean. Both of them are grieving in their own ways; it's just that Feliciano is very vocal about it, while Lovino just refuses any contact with us."

I would've consented to taking Feliciano with us immediately, hell to Lovino or whatever his name was, though Bella, to my left and holding my hand with her white knuckles, seemed unsure.

"Do you think I could talk to him? He used to like me when we were little…"

So up my Bella went, winding up a wooden staircase to knock politely at a door, and I heard her soft little voice disappear into the confines of some surly teen's bedroom.

"Well, Antonio, was it? You've been dating Bella for a year, was it?" I nodded, yes. The woman smiled, her eyes crinkling up into soft crow's feet upon her temple. "That's great! Though, I'd imagine it'd be hard to raise a kid at your age."

I laughed, as customary, and scratched the back of my head. I wasn't planning on raising a child with Bella at all. It would only mean that thick thick whisper in my ear screaming 'marriage' would only become louder, and I didn't want that unless it came with little sweet Feliciano.

"Well, I suppose I'll have to talk to Bella about what's going to happen next. We're just both so young …" the woman nodded sagely, sending soft ringlets splashing across her shoulders.

"It is quite a responsibility, which is why Elizabeta and I would like to help. Though, it would only be proper to wait for Bella to come down with Lovino." Roderich coolly started, pressing his glasses further up his face. He cast a short glance at Feliciano, then at the staircase, where we all heard the door creak open. From the top of the height, I could see Bella's thin white ankles and her pale hand clutching onto the lackluster form of a teenaged boy. They came downstairs with all the fanfare of a criminal walking the plank, and Bella led the boy to sit down next to her, arms clutching his shoulders with the finesse of womanly hands.

"Ah, and this is Lovino, Antonio."

"Hello Lovino, I heard what happened to your father and I'm very sorry." The boy, Lovino, grunted and looked away, hiding his face in the shadow of my Bella's wake. He had that same russet hair, only shaded darker with deeper tones lowlighting the strands. A sharp nose, an angular face, severe eyes, and soft such soft pink lips that protruded out not unlike the pulp of fruit from its flower were all I could make out.

"Now, Bella, Antonio. We know how hard this is going to be for you both, so we thought we'd make things easier." Roderich leaned forward, patting little Feliciano on the back with his aristocratic hands, glinting the sapphires on his finger in the light. He caught my eye and nodded as if we were sharing some secret. "You both are so young and focused on your studies at the moment. And while we'd love to take care of both of the Vargas brothers, we simply don't have the resources to take both of them in." Here he paused so his wife took over, clutching Bella's free hand in hers.

"And since Lovino is pretty independent and older than Feliciano, we thought it might be easier if you took Lovino and gave him a place to stay while Feliciano stayed with us."

And Dios, I near killed the woman. Because really, if we were supposed to have any child, it should've been Feliciano! But no, he, the spitting image of Apollo himself with the youthful beauty that was so sought after by the artists of eons past, would stay with a married man and his wife. And we would receive the surly brother, the dark sharp image of his likeness. It wasn't fair.

"Actually, that's a wonderful idea! Don't you think so Antonio? I can't think of a better arrangement." Bella immediately leaned in and smiled into my face, her own crinkling like paper against the air. I nodded, placing a well-constructed smile on my lips.

"Yes, yes that sounds perfect!"

And with that, cue the scene. With a soft breathy, barely audible little moan, Feliciano stirred awake. He lifted his head from the sofa, and Elizabeta helped him up. The chubby fingers rubbed at his caramel eyes, brushing away sleep and all tiredness as he blinked open his beautiful little childish boy eyes.

"Isabella?"

Even his voice was like a blessing, not like the haunted grunts of that savage thing we were taking back with us, who merely scowled at the lavish attention being served his younger brother. Isabella smiled and leaned over to brush some stray hairs from the boy's face. He beamed and leaned in to hug her, soft sweet and childish in his joy.

"Bella, Bella, Bella!" Pudgy fingers grasped onto the hand that had just before been holding onto Lovino or whoever's hands and he pulled it close to his face, rubbing gently. "Are you leaving?"

"Oh, yes, I'm sorry. Though, you can come visit whenever you want, ok? Auntie Bella and Antonio live in an apartment, and Lovino's going to stay with us for a while, is that ok Feli?"

Feli, Feli, Feliciano. Childish, feliz niño de mi corazón.

He frowned and tugged her hand closer, kissing her cheek when her face drew near.

Oh, is it pathetic that I wished for that moment that I was her?

Don't think of me as a foul man; I did enjoy Bella, I truly did. I can't think of any woman I loved more dearly than her, but as I said before. The youthful magnificence of a faunlet is so much more beautiful and so ignored; I can't stress it enough.

To think that I could've had that child living in my home!

But I digress, I ended up with Lovino, vile vicious lovely Lovino.

It would be a while before I realized I was captured in that web of poison that Lovino had built before me; I wouldn't have believed I had fallen for the child myself until it was too late and I couldn't leave.

We took him away once he packed his things. (Elizabeta told us to visit anytime, so as to foster a good 'brotherly relationship')

The surly Italian boy spoke little in the backseat of the car and answered only Bella's sweet-voiced words like soft honey in his ears with short polite words. When I asked him friendly questions to perhaps soften the blow of losing Feliciano, Lovino turned acidic, his throat taking on a guttural quality fit to scrape sandpaper across. He also, unsurprisingly, became quite the sailor towards me, spouting swears and vicious insults (I'm too shocked to record them, though, mind you, they were quite vile) towards me and my dead ancestors.

A troubled child, at the very least.

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AN: So...I wanted to make Antonio pretty descriptive since he _is_ the country of passion and since Himuraya said he was meant to be yandere, he'd have a lot of darker thoughts hidden up in that obliviously cute face of his ;P  
Bella is Belgium in case anyone couldn't figure that little tidbit out. Faunlet is the male equivalent of a nymphet, like an almost magically attractive young boy around the age of 9 - 14 (coined by Nabokov). I just couldn't actually make Lovino any younger without feeling weirder, so I wimped out and made him the oldest he _could_ be.

_No, mi amor. Está bien; no quiero que te preocupes con esta situación_ - No, my love. It's ok; I don't want you to worry about this situation.

Anyways, reviews are lovely!


	2. Chapter 2

**Disclaimer** : Hetalia is not mine!

**Notes**: Thank you for the wonderful reviews! Seriously, they were freakin awesome :D Hopefully i can live up to your expectations :)  
And Lolita _is_ a great but very disturbing book, and I'd suggest it to anyone mature enough because the prose in there is absolutely _beautiful, e_specially considering how deranged the topic is. Anyways, my story won't be nearly as long and it won't have the same turnout but I'm enjoying writing it all the same. xD

**Warnings**: Mentions of sex, thoughts of pedophilia, swearing. You know the drill.

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At home, I managed to secure a long glance at my new 'child'. Lovino, with his aristocratic high nose, thin and sloping in smooth lines. Lovino, with pouting thick lips blushed the shade of crushed roses. Lovino with skin like gold-flecked marble permanently taut in a frown on his lovely little features.

While he was no Feliciano, he was glowing in his own right. Awkward and tall, unlike the 13-year-old boy I'd adored in the Austrian's home, his body was trim with muscles lining his arms, though not nearly enough to be considered manly (let it be said that he with his silky slender body, in all righteousness, was the perfect example for what the model faunlet should be built like).

Bella prepared the bedroom for him, fussing over the sheets and how unkempt the apartment was (though never once had she made such a racket before), insisting on helping Lovino make himself at home as much as possible. His lips twitched upwards at her concern- I think it was a smile, and what an exquisite smile it was! – as he carried his bags to the empty guest room we kept. I stood at the doorway of his room, leant against the beech wood frame while staring at the little trinkets and goods that began to clutter the place.

A gold trimmed novel was thrown precariously onto a wooden desk. A medium-sized portrait of what appeared to be his family was hung carefully in front of said desk, where a beaming tan man with a scruffy beard sat with a fresh young woman (who incidentally looked quite a bit like Bella) dangling from his bulky bronzed arm. Tiny Lovi and Feli stood at their sides, their little fingers swallowed by the folds of their mother's crimson dress, looking as intoxicating as ever, although Lovino, unsurprisingly, had thrown the cameraman an incredulous scowl while Feliciano, bless the child, only exuded pure joy and clung all the tighter to his mother's fluttering skirt.

They couldn't have been any older than 9, and for a second I felt a spring in my chest compress like heavy weights asphyxiating my lungs. Only, the light-headedness I felt was all the more sensuous and gorgeous as I stared at the image, then at the living breathing embodiment (or perhaps replacement would be a better word at this time) of my desires, still rummaging through his luggage with a scowl on his face.

Do you know, jury, how impossibly difficult my life became because of him? Little lovely Lovino, in my home with his tiny photographs and memories (photographs of a beaming Feliciano, reaching out towards the cameraman, the two brothers at the beach, chests as tanned as the golden scales of a dragon, bare and free for my wandering eyes to feast on), was in every essence the very thing I had tried to keep away from for society's sake, but now, not even in the sanctity of my own house was I safe from my obsessions.

I want to take this time to confess to you that I had never_ never_ touched a child before Lovino. For the many times I crossed playgrounds and watched with unbridled eyes over the edges of worn out newspapers the excited forms of tiny children running, for the many times a particularly attractive young faunlet had approached me with a voice dripping with innocence "_Hi there Mister!"_ and a smile worth going to jail twice over for, I had never once committed any sort of sin or even attempted to coax one home with me. And yet now, the world was mocking me by presenting this horrendously vicious and doubly enchanting child so close to my fingertips that I could hardly resist only with the bars of 'family' and 'social correctness' holding me back.

You must understand where I'm coming from. Every man has a breaking point and I'd been suffocating under mine for years.

In any case, Lovino shooed us away quickly. Said in that gruff little boy voice of his crackling with pubescence "I can handle this myself!" and puttered about the room, setting his clothes in the closet and adjusting his books and paintings. He affixed a nail into the wall where he hung an intricately carved crucifix across from his bed. The emaciated brown body of Christ was horribly detailed and vivid, cut from the pulp of blood tinged padauk wood, the crown of thorns tapering into spikes sharp enough to prick a finger. Lovino smiled fondly at the chiseled body of the fake son of God.

Bella and I left then to the living room where we heard loud clumsy thuds reminiscent of the morning when we had first talked about the entire affair. Loud noises floated by in the form of vicious swears and angry shuffling feet, then it went silent as the boy began murmuring quietly to himself. Straining my ears, I could make out a few words and realized that it must've been a prayer.

In the living room, Bella spoke to me in hushed whispers as if the walls were made of cardboard ("_Oh_ be gentle with him, he's been through so much. It'd be nice if he'd open up to you like a surrogate father, huh? I always did think you'd make a good dad.") while Lovino's voice thrummed in the background. She smiled while caressing my fingers with her own, and I couldn't help but smile back at how terribly funny this all was.

"Por supuesto mi amor, no te preocupe."

Her brow grazed against my lips like rose petals, and it was funny because I was sure no real father could ever harbor such attraction to his child (much less a son! Imagine!), and it was funny because Bella was so perfectly convinced of my innocence. I felt her nestle into my chest on the couch, arms wrapping around my waist, soft and pudgy, as if she were Feliciano and I were an artist, doomed to pamper his little boy lover until the age of magic disappeared from his cheeks. We stayed transfixed like that in the living room couch for a time until the Italian chattering quietly subsided and then the sound of heavy footfalls grew louder.

Lovino stomped out of his room, glancing up to bring a fiery set of emeralds seething with dislike into my own. How adorable – though not quite as adorable as my little Feli! He scratched his head with a gangly arm before coughing pointedly at the woman lying against me, refusing any contact with my curious eyes.

"Bella, can I have some food?"

"What would you like, Lovi? I can make you whatever you like." I smiled. He darkened.

"Don't fucking call me that, you Spanish bastard."

"Lovino! Watch your language." Bella hissed, shooting up from her position. I laughed and squeezed Bella's hand, pretending that the knuckles I was brushing were really Feli's.

"Oh, it's ok! I don't mind. What'll it be, Lovi?" The boy bristled at the name again, shoving his spindly hands into dark blue pockets and glancing at the refrigerator.

"Pasta, and make it snappy, you bastard. I'm starving." He turned on his heel after shooting another discomforted glare at the picturesque image of Bella and me on the couch, heading back to his room with the fury of a typical faunlet. The door crashed shut, and I heard him fall into his bed, the creaking of springs allowing me to divulge in thoughts I was glad nobody could distinguish. How long had I deprived myself of perversion, all to suit the fancy of other people's happiness? It had been too long (I see you cringing at this, but you must realize that a man can only be caged in for so long).

In that moment, I could imagine his form sprawled out across the white down that I had once slept upon, limbs tantalizing and sleek against the sheets. I imagined ghosting my fingertips on that skin the texture of feathers and velvet but of course, it was not his face I saw in the perfect vision but Feliciano. _My Feliciano._

Give it time, I knew; I'd have him indefinitely.

I started on the pasta. Bella turned on the TV, listened to the groaning of the news reels, ("In recent news, an inebriated driver collided with another car to send both parties tumbling off of the cliff on Ravine Road. All people involved were killed-"), then shut it off over the sound of bubbling water and my throat singing pleasant Spanish melodies.

Meanwhile, Lovino thrashed in his sheets.

-.-.-.

Lovino didn't like me.

That much was certain, though I found it odd considering I had done nothing but croon softly to him as Bella did with sugary sweets as if I were a confectioner of words. I showered him with the affection I wanted to reserve for his beautiful younger brother, and in place of the child I couldn't hold, held in arms a slender, taller version of the Adonis I desired. Daring to touch him or hold him a second too long was a torment brewing in my skull, an argument of morals that I often had to fight while smiling into his skin.

Always, always with the swearing and violence, he was. Like a good surrogate father, I wrapped him up in my arms to quell the pulsating burn in my veins and kissed his neck (as all good fathers do), felt through thin cotton the curves of his skin for a few tantalizing seconds before he managed to splutter a mouthful of swears.

Not surprisingly, he cast me off, flustered and glowing in a blush of blood blooming in his cheeks. My Lovino, burning up like explosions of cherry tomatoes heated in the collapse of summer nights, was all the more beautiful in red.

I couldn't help myself around the boy. I told you, didn't I, that I had never once acted upon my impulses? I'd rather been a model citizen, pretending to love beautiful women in the glittering of twilight with names I wouldn't be able to attach to faces like Gabriella or Carlita or Josephine. Who the blonde with dynamic legs was, or who the awful redhead with a mouth as fiery as Lovi's was, I'd never be able to remember, but Lovino Vargas had a face and a name that I could never forget.

For weeks, I risked tiny glances of flesh and with each successful endeavor, felt even more emboldened to continue my innocent trek upon his skin. A loose grip on his tiny wrist became a touch on the shoulder. A touch on the shoulder became caresses on his neck. A kiss on the cheek. A fluttering of hair. You see, the closer you are to a person, the less you see of them; any brush of skin was electric if only because I could close my eyes and imagine the tiny brother in my arms instead of the fidgeting angry child I actually held.

It had been a few weeks since the onset of the crash and 'adoption'. Mostly, Lovino avoided the two of us, though in particular me (even having the nerve to accuse me of perversion while Bella was still there! Bella had simply laughed; she knew I was a rather touchy sort of person. Blamed it on the Spanish blood pumping in my veins, and told Lovino _that's just the way Toni is. But he'll stop if it bothers you, won't you Toni?_). But that was hardly enough to placate the moody little boy, much less me.

In retrospect, those glances were all innocent in context, the kind of loving caresses that a doting father _might_ actually bestow on a child, though inwardly, I could feel the tension in my chest twitching with fury at every flinch he made away from me. Sometimes I thought it was a blessing that Lovino took it upon himself to steer clear of me; my self control was dwindling into nothingness near him and I could hardly contain myself any further. He holed himself in his room most of the time, but even with him decidedly hiding from me, I could still feel his presence burning like a hot iron stamp into my core.

I can remember the sounds of Lovino hiding away in his sheets to avoid us, thrashing at night and blubbering in quiet Italian. He would touch the crucifix at the crux of his neck with slender childish fingers as he glanced up at the ceiling or the resplendently morbid likeness of Christ hanging from his bedroom wall.

My Lovino prayed with unbelievable fervor every night as if he'd be whisked away by his Lord to a safer time when he used to live with his parents. He believed in a Heaven and a Hell so firmly that it pained my own chest to think that I, in his definition, was damned to a future full of fiery brimstone and squealing torture, but of course, I had already resigned myself to such a fate after realizing my own lust.

I know this better than anybody else; Hell is the inevitable final chapter for me, and in all honesty, _your_ judgement as far as my innocence is concerned, will not save me from the Devil when my time comes. But it still breaks my heart, dear jury, to tell you how disillusioned yet passionate the child was about religion. I heard him talking to Bella once, and it near tore my still beating heart right out of my chest from the edge of the doorframe.

"If there's a Heaven, mom and dad will be there, right?"

"Of course, sweetheart." A pause. Then very quietly, like tiptoeing question marks falling from his lips.

"D-d'you think.. there's enough room for me?" A scathing laugh. A hardened voice. "No, probably not. There's only ever enough room for one more Vargas. And I'm sure as hell not the better half." He continued laughing.

Such bitterness residing in his heart! I knew, of course, that what he said was a direct jab at us. There had been no room in Edelstein's house, and there was barely enough room for him to live _here_, and he knew it in the improvisational third stool scraping against the tiles at the dinner table and the hastily set up guest room. And certainly, it was true; if any child deserved a seat in Heaven with whatever God existed, it would be Feliciano with his smiling lips and dovebird eyes, not the cursing abomination (though lovely in feature he may have been).

Suddenly, he shot off, fists clenching as Bella nestled him into her arms like a mother would her child, but he pushed away, the string of Italian tapering off into a quiet trickle.

I wanted to comfort him and soothe his heart from racing by holding him close, though I can't say that it was out of genuine care or concern. His frantic Italian tongue made my chest swell with adoration and fire because I had never before noticed how absolutely seductive that language could sound until it came rolling off of his lips. I'll admit that even in the storm of his sorrow, I could only imagine my tiny Feliciano, clutching my skin with frenzied hands, gasping in that same sensually damnable language with the soft moans of waking passion. I was blinded by searing lust and I confess that this was not one of my greater moments, to imagine such vulgar things as he fell apart.

In any case, it's probably needless to say that young nubile boys plagued my dreams and fantasies more so than it ever had before now that I had to go to bed listening to the heated Romance language dripping from Lovino's thick pouty lips. I imagined supple flesh, sinewy muscles taut in the recesses of my mind and it was enough to send a man mad, I can assure you. I could hear him swearing, imagine him groaning under me, and my will snapped.

So to protect the Vargas brothers, Bella became the outlet for my sexual repression because nighttime excursions into the bathroom with a calloused hand and memories fresh full of ferocious Italian were far too lonely for me. In the arch of her back, in the warmth of her flesh, her sweet moans and soft skin, I pictured instead with closed lids that she was Feliciano (or was it Lovino?) whispering in Italian raging violent words like a tempest (now, looking back on those memories, that's when I should've realized it wasn't Feliciano I craved when we fucked but Lovino).

It was a vicious cycle of love and hate. Lovino hated me even more after heavy nights of sweat and sex with her, though I knew that if I could ever explain to him - _explain_ that _he_ was the one forcing me to live out false fantasies this way - he'd despise every inch of my Spanish blood even more.

And for every stir of anger in his blood, he would burst into vile shouts of Italian and his face would flush with the red of passion, and then I could imagine him, naked before me like the young sacrificial lamb and I'd be in love all over again. I could, for days and nights, imagine that Bella's body was his, but there was something missing in the shape of her curves and the touch of her muscles or the cry of her voice.

Those months were unbearable for me, but it only grew worse. Summer came sweeping into the scene with the heat of feverish lust, the scenes of grandeur emblazoned in pink sunsets and yellowing horizons.

Lovino was growing into a fine fine specimen, and in the soft angles of sunlight, I could see Feliciano's smiling face in that scowling pit of flesh. So for every flash of sweat coating his skin from the hazy warmth, a fire burned in my core like coils ready to spring out and reveal my disgusting secret.

I could only wonder how long could I hold on to my sanity when Lovino insisted on napping on the couch without those flimsy barriers of clothes when it got hot. How long was long enough of gleaming gold skin, vicious scowls, beautiful angry Italian curses, and brilliant crimson on his cheeks? Were another 40 days and 40 nights long enough?

When would the temptation end?

* * *

AN: There may be an up in the rating after this chapter, though I'm not entirely sure yet.  
Sorry if this was rather disjointed and disorganized! I just get way too caught up in writing in dark!Spain's voice (which is admittedly questionable and weird to begin with...).

Reviews would be great as far as where you'd like to see this go. I have some plans but it's up in the air for suggestions :) I'd **especially** like to see if anyone has any ideas for somebody to pair Lovino with for a chapter or two, for the sake of the story!

PS It might take a while until the next update mostly because I want to have a story outline drawn up before my next update so that things go smoothly and I don't abandon this :D  
Tata~


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